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by onceandfuturewarlock



Series: Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic [19]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur Stop Bodyshaming Your Best Friend Or Die By My Blade, Gen, the title has absolutely nothing to do with preferred sexual positions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:06:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25010602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onceandfuturewarlock/pseuds/onceandfuturewarlock
Summary: If Merlin wasn't such a colossal idiot, Arthur wouldn't even believe it.The greatest sorcerer ever to walk the earth, the king of the druids and the last dragonlord and the master of life and death and the magnificent, all-powerful warlock Emrys, has messed up with his magic, and gotten himself stuck in Arthur's body.And he's got Arthur stuck in his.But Merlin is a colossal idiot.So Arthur believes it.
Relationships: Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1319066
Comments: 88
Kudos: 555





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Arthur thought he had seen the worst of it when an entire camp of druids dropped down on bended knee, heads bowed and hands clasped, and called Merlin _Emrys_ and _my lord_ and _the greatest sorcerer ever to walk the earth._

He thought he had seen the worst of it when the quiet, pretty girl wrapped in an old, tattered purple dress crawled out from the silver depths of a magical lake, and told him she was _Merlin's wife_ , except Merlin has never even so much as _said her name_ , because he would probably actually _die_ if he ever had to tell the truth about _anything_ , ever, in _his entire life_.

Arthur thought he had seen the worst of it when Merlin called up a dragon. When Merlin turned out to be _the last dragonlord_. When he crashed to the ground, all pale and limp and shaky, in a fit of magical exhaustion. When he turned himself into a girl. When he split himself into _nine entire Merlins_. When he called up a _whole other Merlin_ from _an alternate dimension_ , and this _whole other Merlin_ turned out to be an _absolute lunatic_. The little bastard tried to murder Arthur no less than _thirteen times_ because he wanted "justice for sorcerers" or some rubbish like that, before the _real_ Merlin finally got him under control and pushed him back into his world.

(Arthur feels desperately sorry for the Other Arthur in Evil Merlin's dimension.)

Well.

Look.

The point is. This is the point. This is the point right here.

The point is, Arthur thought he had already seen the worst of it, because obviously, it simply _can't_ get worse than Girl Merlin, or Nine Merlins, or Evil Merlin.

But.

That's the thing.

It _can_.

This is worse than Girl Merlin and Nine Merlins and Evil Merlin, it's so much worse than all of that, and Arthur thinks he would take all of that again before he would take _this_ even _once_.

"Merlin," he says, and he sounds so _wrong_ , so awkward and off-kilter and _not him_ , and it burns the insides of his ears to hear it, "you have _ten minutes_ to figure this out, and put us right, or _I'm tossing you in the pigpen_!"

Merlin blinks up at him—and _God_ , this is _so_ weird, it is so weird to see the way his eyes open and shut, the way his _mouth_ opens and shuts, the way his hair falls over his brow, the way his fingers curl and uncurl, clench and unclench, the way his throat jerks when he talks—

"Well," Merlin says, simply, "I already spend all day, every day, with the biggest boar of them all."

Arthur scowls. "It's _not funny_ , Merlin!"

"It wasn't a joke," Merlin says flatly.

" _I can't_ look like _this_!" Arthur jabs a finger in his own chest. (Is it his own chest? Can he call it that? Can he call it his own chest right now?) "I can't _be seen_ like this, Merlin, look at me! For God's sake! Look at me!" He sweeps a hand down to show off his new and entirely awful body. Except _it's not even his body_. "I'm _you_!"

If Merlin wasn't such a colossal idiot, Arthur wouldn't even believe it—the greatest sorcerer ever to walk the earth, the king of the druids and the last dragonlord and the master of life and death and the magnificent, all-powerful warlock Emrys, has messed up with his magic, and gotten himself stuck in Arthur's body.

And he's got _Arthur_ stuck in _his._

But.

Merlin _is_ a colossal idiot.

So Arthur believes it.

Merlin scowls. Is that really the way Arthur looks when he's mad? That crease in his brow? That little vein in his neck? " _Yes_ , Sire," Merlin says, acidly, "I can see this is _absolutely humiliating_ for you—"

Arthur shuts him out. He's got bigger things on his mind right now. Like—

" _Your ears_ ," he runs his hands down the sides of his head with a little moan. Is this the way Merlin feels? Like he's got _dragon wings_ up there? "I feel like one of Cook's _brass pots_. With the _really big_ handles. Is that the way you feel? Do you feel like one of Cook's brass pots all the time? Is that why you're so grumpy?"

Merlin glares up from his spellbook. "There's _nothing wrong_ with my ears!"

"There's _everything_ wrong with your ears!" But Arthur takes his hands off his head all the same—it's only going to make him feel _worse_ to think about it, and it's better to _not_ think about it if he's going to be stuck with big ears and an ugly scarf and—

—and—

Oh.

Oh, _no_.

Arthur rips off Merlin's rough, ratty blue shirt with the ripped-up hem—he can't believe it didn't hit him before, but this is, obviously, the absolute _worst thing_ about being Merlin, and oh, God, it's even _more awful_ than he feared!

"You're so _bony_!"

" _Arthur_!" Merlin goes absolutely bright pink. "Put my shirt back on!"

"I—I can see _your ribcage_! I—I can _feel_ _your bones_ ," he presses down on Merlin's narrow, scrawny side, " _under_ _your skin_! You have _no muscle_! You look like _a girl_!"

"Put my shirt back on!" Merlin says again. He's turned all the way red now. "Stop _showing me off_ like that!"

" _Showing you off_?" Arthur almost laughs. He can _not_ be serious, can he? "You don't have anything _to_ show off! You're skin and bone!" If only _he_ wasn't stuck with the skin and bone right now. God. He misses his muscles.

"Well, _I'm_ hardly singing from the castle rooftops!" Merlin says, sharply, his cheeks still very red. " _I_ have to look like _you_!"

Arthur snaps his head up to stare at Merlin. Or does he stare at _himself_? "What are you on about?" He shakes his head. " _You've_ obviously got the better end of the deal! _You_ get to be _me_!"

Merlin lets out a very unkind snort. " _Get to be you_? I feel like _a hippopotamus_!"

Arthur reels back. _A hippopotamus?!_ "What?!"

"I feel like I'm carrying the _Round Table_ on _my arms_!" Merlin winces and rolls his—Arthur's?—shoulders. "I'm so _heavy_!"

_Oh._ Arthur actually _does_ laugh now. "Yes, that's called _strength_ and _muscle_ , Merlin. Of course, I wouldn't expect _you_ to be familiar with it, but—"

"Look," Merlin says, with a distinct air of utter desperation, "just put my shirt back on, _please_ , and let me focus. I'm _never_ going to find the right spell if you keep whining about this."

"I'm not _whining_ ," Arthur huffs, because he's not, kings don't whine, thank you very much, even when kings have absolutely every right in all of Albion to whine. But he does put Merlin's shirt back on—he would be pretty embarrassed of his body, too, if that was all he had to show for himself—and plops down in the nearest chair.

God, it's so strange to look over and see himself in the same way he's seen Merlin a hundred thousand times before—all tucked up on the bottommost stair, spellbook open on his knees, hunched over the dusty old tome with his shoulders up ( _like a humpbacked old witch_ , Arthur said, _once_ , and he had bright green hair for a full week before Merlin finally turned him back, honestly, the idiot could be such a girl sometimes—)

"I've got it!" Merlin looks up with a bright grin—even with Arthur's face, he still looks tremendously goofy—and jabs a finger at the page. "Here, it says—oh, it needs a potion, and—um—"

All the color drains from Merlin's face, and he hastily hunches back over the book, almost desperately, and so near his nose nearly touches the thick paper.

"Oh, _no_."

"What?" Arthur springs from his seat, and rushes over to look at the book for himself, but he already knows he can't read a word of it. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"The—um—" Merlin swallows, hard, and licks his lips, "—the potion needs to steep."

Arthur frowns. Is that all?

"For nine hours."

" _What?!"_

"The potion itself doesn't _look_ very difficult," Merlin says, thoughtfully, and hunches over the book again. Like a humpbacked old witch.

"Nine hours!" Arthur says numbly. He can't _be Merlin_ for _nine hours_! He _can't_! He has _so much_ to _do_!

"I think we've actually got all the herbs we need in the cupboards," Merlin lifts his head, and looks hopefully 'round Gaius' cluttered, sunlit chambers. "I'm sure I can toss this together before we—"

" _Nine hours!"_

"Yes, Arthur," Merlin says, and he's got the nerve to sound impatient about it, too. "Nine hours. I thought I already told you that."

"No, _no_ ," Arthur shakes his head, so hard Merlin's dark hair tumbles down in his eyes, and he has to reach up and brush it back, "you don't understand, Merlin, I can't be you for nine hours! I don't _have_ nine hours! I have a council meeting in _fifteen minutes_!"

Merlin finally snaps his stupid mouth shut, but his eyes go wide and round in his— _Arthur's_ —face. "Oh," he says, very feebly. "That's bad."

"And I have three new knights to name in _two hours_ before I have to get down to the grounds for training, and oh, God, Merlin, how am I supposed to spar with my men when I'm _skinny_ as a _broomstick?"_

" _I_ spar with _you_ all the time," Merlin says. He's gone a bit pink in the cheeks again. "And _I'm_ like _that_ ," he waves a hand at Arthur, " _all the time_."

Arthur snorts. "You _do not_ 'spar' with me, Merlin. You go down with one hit, right off, and you lay in the grass, moaning and whimpering and—"

"You hit too hard!"

"That's _the point_! I'm supposed to hit too hard, and you're supposed to hit back! You're supposed to _pretend I'm an enemy_!"

"Yeah, well, it's not so simple for some of us, Arthur, because if _I_ pretended _you_ were an enemy, you would _be dead_ —"

"All right, look," Arthur cuts him off, "we're not going to sort this out if we stand here and quibble about it, so let's get on with it. Go ahead and make the potion, we can leave it to steep in here, no one ever messes with Gaius' things." No one in Camelot has the nerve to mess with Gaius' things. Not even Gwaine. "We can go to the council meeting and explain everything there."

Merlin blinks blankly back at him. "Explain?"

Arthur raises his brows. What's so hard to believe about that? "Yes, Merlin, we're going to explain. We're going to tell the court you mucked up with your magic, again, and it's made me look like you, and it's made _you_ look like _me_ —"

"Um," Merlin says. "No."

Arthur steps back. "No?" His brows lift even higher. "I'm the King, Merlin, you can't tell me—"

" _No_ , Arthur," Merlin says. "Do you _want_ to get yourself tossed in the dungeon? Because that would be the perfect way to get yourself tossed in the dungeon. And burned at the stake at sunrise."

"What?" Honestly, can Merlin even _hear himself_ right now? "They would not throw me in the dungeon! I'm the _King_!" He stands up a little straighter and throws his shoulders back, but it feels pathetic when he's so scrawny. No wonder Merlin slouches so much.

"Can you prove it?"

"What?" Arthur blinks. "Don't be ridiculous, Merlin, I don't _need_ to prove it, I'm _obviously_ the King, you know I'm the—"

"Yes," Merlin says, firmly, "but _can_ you prove it?"

Arthur reaches, on blind reflex, for his sword, his sigil, his ring, all the things with the Pendragon crest, the Camelot crest, splashed upon them, but— _oh_ —it's all on Merlin now, isn't it, Merlin has his sword and his sigil and his ring and—

—and—

"All they're going to see," Merlin says, "is a servant out to steal the throne."

Arthur tries to scoff. It doesn't come out right. "That's ridiculous," he says, but it's not, and he knows it's not. "No one in the kingdom is more loyal to me than you. No one would ever think _you're_ trying to _steal_ —"

Merlin just looks at him.

Arthur sputters out. He really, really hates it when Merlin's right. It should be illegal for Merlin to be right. He should make that an official law. When he's him again, of course.

(He should _also_ make it an official law that no one is ever allowed to suspect Merlin of treason.)

"All right," he says, finally, "so, what are we supposed to do, then? Just go about our day like everything is normal? Pretend to be each other?" He looks Merlin up and down. "I really don't think you can pull it off. Even when you _look_ like me."

"Shouldn't be hard," Merlin lifts his shoulders in a little shrug. "Walk 'round with my nose in the air, pretend I'm better than everybody, pretend I have literally never seen a woman in my life when Gwen walks into the room—"

"Do you _want_ a day in the stocks? Because you are very close to getting a day in the—"

"You can't put me in the stocks," Merlin waves a hand. "I'm _you_. If anything, _I_ could put _you_ in the—"

Merlin stops dead. He breaks off, right in the middle, with his hand still up, his blond brow still wrinkled, and he stares, blankly, down at Gaius' overcrowded worktable like he has just glimpsed the very secrets of the universe.

Arthur frowns. He edges a bit nearer. "Merlin?"

" _I could put you in the stocks_ ," Merlin whispers, in a voice of absolute and unbridled wonder.

"What?!" No, Arthur _does not_ screech, thank you very much! "No, you can't! Stop talking crazy, Merlin, _I'm the King_!"

Merlin smiles brilliantly back at him. "Can you _prove_ that?"

**Author's Note:**

> Evil Merlin From Another Dimension Tries To Kill Arthur Thirteen Times was supposed to be a fun, throwaway line and now it consumes me. i MUST write it one day.


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